


Miles Apart

by isabelle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Consensual, Curses, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pesterlog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabelle/pseuds/isabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TG: im going to need you to be straight up with me on this issue<br/>TG: john<br/>TG: do you want the dick</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be the drunk guy.

The inside of your skull feels like it has been infiltrated by gallons of boiling water, and oh shit, you swear to everything ever that your face is prickling. You tentatively knead your right temple with quivering fingers and find that the sweat there is cold, even though you swear you are nearing temperatures that are only present in the deepest layers of hell, what the fuck. Second thought, you decide to just go complete face-in-hands and give yourself a fucking _subsuming_ face massage, just wiggle those fingers all up in there, just everywhere, yeah.

==> Realize your shades aren’t on your face.

Wow, it’s been a while since the bridge of your nose has been this exposed. You squint your eyes in the darkness while haphazardly feeling around with your trembling hands—why the fuck are all my appendages shaking so much this isnt a vibra-thon—and you feel an inexplicable rise of panic in your gut. Or maybe that’s just nausea. It’s probably nausea, yeah, you are pretty terrible to your innards most of the time.

You shakily try to stand up, but nope, that isn’t happening, so you drowsily roll yourself around until you’re on your hands and knees, and you’re so proud of yourself you could almost cry. You sternly look in front of you and find that your shades have somehow climbed their way to the top of Beer Can Mountain—a lopsided, suspiciously moist pile of PBRs—and you’re so proud of them that you almost cry again.

==> Celebrate accordingly. 

Those shades need to get on your face so fast, and you are going to include it in the best face massage of all time, and it’s going to be so great, the greatest of greats, hell yeah. You reach your hand towards them, noticing just how pale you look in the dark—holy shit im a glowstick—and your fingers touch the cold plastic wheel of your computer chair.

Dammit, you missed. But wait, that means your computer is nearby, and aw yeah, it needs to get in on this face massage action too. But first, you’re feeling bare and vulnerable to the elements without your shades, even if they were touched by Ben Stiller’s grubby digits at one point. You have a feeling it’s partly because of your mutant eyes are visible, that’s always an inconvenience, but it’s mostly because they somehow connect you to someone you often deem your best bro. That is a title you gauge with utmost importance and magnitude, and as far as you’re concerned, typing it out is the equivalent of being knighted by The Queen.

Wait, shit, no. “Knighted” doesn’t seem to fit your bro well at all. It’s almost as if _he_ knighted _you_ without even meaning to, and you insisted on it, and now you’re his eternal protection-bro forever, and somehow you feel as if he will always be more capable and important than you are, and you don’t even give the slightest of fucks. You don’t care about being important, you just care about being important to _him_ , and you think you nailed that a while ago. Prime-time accomplishment, yeah.

It takes quite a bit of blindly grappling around because your vision is doing this weird swirly thing and everything is too blurry because of your current physical state and too clear because of your current shades state and you didn’t even know that was possible, what the fuck, but you eventually manage to get a grip on the side of your shades. As you shakily place them in front of your eyes, you absently wonder if your best bro touched them where you touched them, and it brings all of this heat to your head, ah. Not to mention the heat going to your crotch, oh jeez, and you’re suddenly wondering whether or not that was a sign from the universe—is john telepathically messin w my dick oh my god.

In your crashing wave of realization, you roll right over Beer Can Mountain and feel the metal crush underneath your weight before you grab at the seat of your computer chair, the pads of your fingers ultra-sensitive to the rough fabric of it. You’re absolutely sure that your shirt is now covered in splotches of beer, but whatever, you’re fabulous enough to work it, so you just dismiss it as you struggle to pull yourself over your computer chair and in front of your desk.

Eventually, you work yourself into this half-standing-half-perched position that strains your loins and makes you have to awkwardly angle your fingers to type, but whatever, you did it, and you deserve a medal. You wiggle your computer mouse, and your desktop whirs to life, and oh my _god_ , that is so _bright_ , you are blinded for life. You shakily bring one hand up to adjust your shades because they didn’t fulfill their one purpose, how does that even happen, and you use your other hand to navigate your cursor to the smiling Pesterchum icon. You click it twice, and after a few seconds, you see a familiar blue username. Thank god he’s online, you can’t stop smiling, hell yes.

**\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 21:57 --**

** TG: im going to need you to be straight up with me on this issue **

** TG: john **

** TG: do you want the dick **

** EB: uh. **

** EB: if you mean dick clark! that man is a fine silver fox. **

** TG: my dick specifically **

** TG: do you feel even the most minuscule flare of desire when the subject of my dick finds its way into your derpy cerebral mattter **

** EB: well, has your dick been nominated for 21 emmys like dick clark? **

** EB: also **

** EB: derpy??? **

** TG: dont worry bro its the kind of derpy thats charming as all hell **

** EB: i don’t think you even know what you’re talking about. **

** TG: yes but do you know what i know you know youre talkign about **

** EB: what. **

** TG: ok john im going to grant you the honestest of truths here **

** TG: im home alone and i may have found bros stash of cheap rancid beer **

** TG: found repose in them you know just kept them by my side for company **

** TG: and they may have tasted exactly how broken dreams feel **

** TG: or you know that feeling when you brush past a really sharp corner of a table and you have to keep walking and pretend like it didnt hurt but it so did and it almost brinngs a manly tear to your manly eye **

** TG: yeah that was the entire cheap beer experience **

** EB: i don’t expect you to care about this at all but you’re underage! **

** TG: shhh john im not done **

** TG: im not even tipsy yet i feel like im only entering the shyly revealing floozy stages of a wanton jezebel’s journey through a night club jjohn **

** TG: but john i cant stop saying your name becuase its one of those words that just feels awesome in my mouth **

** EB: jesus. **

** TG: hahaha im just sitting here saying it to myself like a fucking loony  **

** EB: wow! uh. i guess your name isn’t too bad either? **

** TG: damn straight **

** TG: fuckign **

** TG: three syllables yeah thats just the right anmount of syllables **

** TG: oh shITf john your name is three syllables too **

** TG: why haverent we bonded overe this before **

** EB: i don’t know, maybe because we bond over way more important things? **

** EB: wow, even though we live hundreds of miles away and we are only connected through the wonders of stable wifi, **

** EB: i feel like i’m totally taking advantage of you right now! all your defenses are gone dave!  **

** EB: no sarcastic guarding, only dreams now.  **

** TG: oh shitfd thats kind of hot **

** EB: settle down that dick clark of yours, that is not what i meant to imply just now. **

** TG: too late john it has already been done john **

** EB: wow, dave, i don't think you're saying my name enough. **

** TG: john **

** TG: john john john john jooohn johnhnnjohnjhohn **

** EB: hehehehe. **

** EB: are you actually saying it? out loud? **

** TG: hell yes i am granting my tongue the pleasure of saying it out lud **

** EB: i want you to scream it. make all your neighbors hear. **

** EB: ... **

** EB: dave? **

** TG: the deed is done **

** EB: oh my god. **

** EB: this is going to be hilarious tomorrow! make this a lesson against underage drinking! i’m throwing some mad morals at you right now! **

** TG: john **

** TG: wow i **

** TG: huh **

** TG: all that screaming kind of made me a litttle dizzy **

** TG: dude whne did my neck get so weak and why is my head made out of the densest of concretes im so pissed this is inconvenient as helll **

** EB: dave? **

** EB: oh shit dude do NOT sleep with your head back okay. **

**EB: i watched this thing on tv once where this guy suffocated on his own puke or something. **

**** EB: if you don’t pester me in the morning i am taking the liberty of flying my ass over to the south and punching you right in your irresponsible face. ** **

**

** TG: jfirh **

** TG: plaese do **

** EB: lie your head down right where you are, don’t try to trip your way over to your bed, i swear to god, you’ll get impaled by a sword or something and then i’ll be so pissed! **

** EB: close your eyes and drink water only when you feel like you can stand up okay. **

** EB: wow this conversation took a turn! **

** TG: john imm really lonely **

** EB: man, don’t say that. i promise i'll be right here and stuff. **

** TG: thanks bro i lov y **

** TG: ou **

** EG: please take this in the sincerest, most bro-liest way possible: fucking drunkenly pass out already! **

** TG: k **

** \-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 23:02 -- **

 

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeeeee  
> i'm really bad at writing in second person, and i really hope i don't cause too much projectile vomiting
> 
> don't you worry  
> the smut is coming  
> hold your boner horses


	2. Be the worried guy.

==> Dave: Get up.

No. You’ve already made plans to spend the rest of your miserable life right here, sprawled out in a pile of tangled limbs on your flimsy-ass computer chair, your forefinger forever plastered to the "k" key of your keyboard with dried splotches of beer. You'll raise a family here, you'll name all your children after all of your mistakes, all coincidentally starting with "John" and ending with "Egbertohshitimessedeverythingupwhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy."

You haven’t even moved your face from where it has been perched on the corner of your desk, making your head droop so your freckled cheek squishes up in the most unattractive of ways against your shades. You’re absolutely positive that all of your limbs fell asleep about four hours ago, and you’re also sure that you have shallow cuts from when you rolled over a pile of crushed PBR cans numerous times—beer can mountain was a beautiful rose with beautiful thorns.

Groaning, your eyes experimentally open into narrow slits, and you are suddenly staring into the thousands of white-hot suns that is your open window, and your head is whirling in a way that you aren’t used to, and your stomach launches a burning rush of fluid up your esophagus, and yeah, getting up suddenly seems like a pretty good idea.

You slap a palm over your clamped mouth before clumsily fighting your way out of your chair, and oh yeah, your legs are asleep, so you just fall right back down to the carpet. In a fit of determination, you kick your way under your desk and fumblingly snatch the rim of your trash can before arching over it and hurling up all your mistakes, oh god this is gross, why does PBR even exist, it’s still technically hip, it’s not even ironic, you hate everything.

After you have purged yourself of all the wrongs in the world, your throat feels sufficiently coated in acid and regret. You allow yourself a moment of just lying there with your eyes closed and your tongue swollen and your breath probably all kinds of grody before you force yourself to crawl out from underneath your desk and into the bathroom to drink water from the sink because you have hazy memories of John telling you to.

* * *

 

==> John: Send thirty-eighth message.

You let your finger bounce of the "enter" key and stare at your computer screen with your eyebrows furrowed in worry. A record-total of six seconds later, you proceed to angrily mash out your thirty-ninth through forty-fourth messages.

EB: dave.

EB: daaaave.

EB: daaaaaave!

EB: DAAAAAAVE!!!

EB: i told you what would happen if you didn't pester me in the morning!

EB: if you ended up dying last night from being a stupid dumb face stupid beer stupid, i'm going to punch you so hard! right in your stupid dead face!

Truth is that you were afraid to move away from your computer for most of the night, thinking that if Dave had started choking or found some other means of meeting his extreme peril, he'd use precious moments of his time to type out a meaningful yo i attracted some mega unfortunate danger and suddenly _his life would be in your hands_. It makes you panic just thinking about it, and you have googled the Houston Police Department's phone number more times than you care to admit.

This has led to you absently putting “houston, texas” in the Google Images search bar, entranced by the sheer amount of suburbs they _don’t_ have. Instead, it looks like an entire mass of reflective rectangular buildings surrounded by blots of artificial fields and browned, straggly trees, and oh god is that a picture of a deep-fried cheese ball, whose idea was that, how the hell did they make it look so goddamn decadent.

After scrolling for a few minutes, you find that you have seen way too many pictures of grinning middle-aged men and geometrically shaped foodstuffs, and you begin glaring at all the bibbed people sitting in red leather booths with absurdly large piles of ribs in front of them because they’re probably smiling because they’re so close to Dave and i'm not, the bastards!

Without even realizing you’re doing it, you look up “plane tickets to houston tx from washington,” and you find that you can name the price without even scrolling through the results solely because you have made that exact Google search numerous times before. Three-hundred thirty-six dollars, yeah, you could probably do that, maybe, oh hell, probably not, your dad will probably bring up the fact that you’re not old enough to board a plane by yourself—SON. YOU STILL HAVE YET TO COAT YOUR INCOMING FACE HAIRS WITH BARBASOL.—and then he’ll force-feed you, and the cake will somehow be all rounded, and that’ll just remind you of Houston’s strange affinity with spherical delights, and you’ll die. You will _die_.

Sighing, you minimize Google and glance at your Pesterchum window, only to see that a username spelled out in red has moved to the online part of your Chumroll, and he has apparently been typing out a single message for you for a total of seven minutes. And counting!

Wow, it must be a novel! You thread your fingers together before expectantly directing your gaze to the chat window, only slightly embarrassed by the forty-four blue pesters staring you in the face.

A total of two and a half minutes later, Dave finally sends you the message he has been slaving over.

TG: sup

You can’t help it; your mouth falls open and you’re doing one of those comical deadpan gawks into your computer screen and you can almost feel your Prankster’s Gambit fall below repairable levels. Your hands angrily fly to your keyboard, but you stop when you see Dave typing out more messages. He seems to have picked up the pace a little bit.

TG: i drank some water like you said but i kept missing my mouth and now im having myself a one-man wet tshirt party

TG: it isnt as fun as youd think

TG: mostly just really cold and maybe a little nipply

TG: hold on im reading your messages

You begin typing out you’ll be really cold and nipply when im done with you!! but then you realize what it insinuates and your cheeks go as red as his text and you're backspacing it at a thousand miles per hour. You really can not type out a message that isn’t slightly suggestive in this situation, so you settle for waiting until Dave replies again. You are sure that you are finally entering the first stages of diabetes after years of sugary confections because your heart will not stop throttling your ribcage, and you are suddenly so lightheaded, and oh my god, when did it get so hot in here, what the hell.

TG: oh shit i forgot that youd come over here if i didnt reply dammit

TG: can i start over

TG: i promise i will deal out some premium disdain 

TG: give you all sorts of cold shoulders

TG: i havent even started cleaning up my humble abode for the egbert train oh no what will you think of me now 

TG: all the townspeople will think im a woman of unpinned virtue when you storm out and my ignominy will be the prime talk at the convents and then i will never be wed egbert is that what you want

You can bet anything that he will outwardly deny the existence of his drunk messages, probably through the use of increasingly convoluted similes and occasional rhymes, but you find yourself unable to resist bringing them up anyway.

EB: i liked it better when you called me john.

When he didn't respond for a few strained moments, you decide that it couldn't hurt to tag on a little something extra.

EB: i'm sure your neighbors did too. hehehehe.

You make a mental note to tell your dad to order some insulin because your vision is a little blurred at the edges and your mouth is suddenly so dry, illegally dry, you need to inform the police about these levels of dryness. You aren't even sure if those are actual symptoms of diabetes, but whatever, they seem close enough.

TG: jfc

TG: so that actually happened

TG: well this certainly has the potential to be an awkward hurdle in our friendship huh egbert

EB: what happened to you liking my first name? i'm not feeling the love here.

EB: and just because i like thinking of you saying my name is not any indication that i fucking like you baka!

TG: careful john there is such a thing as being too tsundere

You read over his pester and can't help but smile at how he caved in without making it attract too much attention, just like you knew he would, and you can't help but imagine him actually mouthing the words to himself wherever he is. You think he might have a bit of a Southern drawl because of his Texan roots, and yeah, you think you're okay with that. You think you're really okay with that.

EB: i think last night established that you are the tsundere one in this relationship.

EB: i never knew how much you were keeping from me! it's a little hurtful.

TG: wait what

TG: i didnt actually read the entire thing because my computer screen seems really intent on blinding me lately

TG: what

TG: uh

TG: what did i tell you

Are you smiling? Yeah, you think you're smiling. You're straight-up flashing the toothiest grin humanity has ever seen, and you think your lost Prankster's Gambit may be repairable after all.

EB: you confessed your undying love for me, and while i think the conditions were a little questionable, i thought it was pretty cute!

EB: and then there was something about you secretly liking my taste in movies.

EB: and then you told me that you only say i'm really lame on a daily basis because you want to hide your deeply buried feelings for me? that one was a little hard to work out through all the typos.

You're giggling like a madman, and you're expecting Dave to send you a barrage of messages calling out your bullshit, but you decide to savor this moment anyway. He's probably so confused! Maybe you finally broke his pokerface! If only you could actually see it in person.

TG: oh

TG: oh fuck

Here it comes! The moment when he tells you that you are full of shit, and that he would never be a _feelings_ sort of drunk, and you'll laugh it off, and that will cue your bro-fist into the sunset, and you will proceed to log off and tell your dad of your impending trip to Houston in a few years or whatever, probably when he thinks you're old enough, and everything will develop just how bro-relationships should.

TG: john i am so sorry

TG: please just pretend you dont know any of that ok

TG: if youre my real friend just pretend that everything i said is the result of a stupid teenage phase and i promise i will grow out of it ok please

Wait.

Wait, what.

W. h. a. t.

* * *

 

==> Dave: Frantically try to save doomed friendship with your best bro.

You don't know how you got here, but you find yourself lying on your back on the floor with your feet sprawled on top of the armrests of your computer chair. Your shades are askew, covering only one of your eyes, and your keyboard is dangling off the edge of your desk from its chord just enough for you to be able to reach it from your mound of shame. Your scalp is slightly sore where your hair is sticking up, signaling a gnarly-ass bed head, and you're pretty sure you can feel dried drool on the corner of your mouth. The fabric of your shirt sticks to your torso in the places it was struck by your sink this morning.

Your current physical state is the most potently ridiculing metaphor for the state of your life right now. You shift your head upwards a bit, holy fuck everything _hurts_ , and squint so you can decipher what's on your computer screen. You almost don't want to read it.

EB: hahahahahaha, you're so funny dave!!!

EB: ...

EB: dave?

EB: look at us, just two ordinary dudes joking around with each other! hehehee! so funny!

EB: ...

EB: ........

EB: dave i swear to god if you don't reply soon i will assault you with the most violent of ellipses. 

EB: ........!!

EB: ................!!!!!!

Holy shit, those ellipses are violent.

You are so intimidated, you can hardly move. Oh wait, that's because of your brutal hangover, you almost forgot about that because it's not like it's _completely taking over your entire life right now_.

You reach your hands up, and oh my god, your shoulders are so stiff, you think you hear the joints crack a bit, and you suddenly feel sixty-years-old. Your suspended keyboard wiggles in the air a bit as you type on it, but you think you mastered the art of handling appliances placed in the most inconvenient of locations long ago.

TG: john

TG: give it to me straight

TG: have you really never felt even the most infinitesimal kernel of 

TG: uh

TG: hm

TG: do you

TG: have you

TG: fuck

TG: feelings john do you have them

In a fit of what you'd like to think is _manly-ass sentiment_ , you nudge your wrists forward and send your keyboard rocking precariously back and forth at your side before you cover your face with your arms, and ew, you totally smell like awful beer and vomit, and you make a mental note to take a shower as soon as you're sure that you won't drown yourself in the process. Your face was already pink because of the aftereffects of alcohol, and you only grow more feverish under the weight of what you just sent. You should've just played it off as a joke—hahaha got you so good now let's go have some totally platonic joke sex if you'd so kindly oblige because you have the nicest of asses like it literally irritates me how nice it is—but you honestly didn't think you could hold it in for very much longer.

God, you sound like a preteen girl, when the fuck did that become a thing.

* * *

 

==> John: Remain zen as hell.  


Just kidding, you're totally freaking out, you passed the point of nirvana and headed straight for Freak-the-Fuck-Out Land.

EB: um?

EB: well, you've always been my best bro, those are some intense feelings.

That was a bad response and you should feel bad for sending it. You are bad, and you need to be punished, and Dave could do it for the low cost of three-hundred thirty-six dollars, and he could actually _be there_ and you could actually _see him_ and oh my god why are you thinking these thoughts.

TG: well obviously but i mean

TG: do you

TG: wow ok im just going to say it

TG: i would like to ravish you john 

TG: and i dont mean anything polite when i say that

TG: i want to completely ruin you and i am wondering if you reciprocate

TG: but the thing is that's not entirely it 

TG: if it was i could just blame it on hormones or the number of plush rumps i am constantly surrounded by but i also want to kiss you like in disney with flying hearts and symphony music and shit 

Wow, those were a lot of chills that went through you just now. You can feel your pulse clearly in your chest, violently, tremblingly, in your gut, at the back of your skull, at the sides of your neck, and you raise your shoulders skittishly as you try to weakly cough against your nerves.

EB: really?

TG: yes

EB: you're still drunk, aren't you.

TG: no john thats not how alcohol works 

TG: i am however still nursing an embarrassing desire to grab dat ass 

Strands of your dark hair fall into your eyes as you absently hunch your shoulders forward, your fingers brushing experimentally at your belt buckle. 

EB: and?

TG: well uh

TG: i guess i would kiss you while doing it? if thats what youre into

TG: just 

TG: oh my god

TG: i want to kiss every inch of you

TG: there will be some teeth involved because i am not accepting a completely vanilla encounter with someone as beautiful as yourself

You don't even realize you're doing it before it happens. The fingers of your left hand are on your lips, your teeth sinking into the very tips of them, and your right hand is fighting with the zipper on your jeans. You're trembling all over, surges of fluttering jounces nipping at your bare skin as your cheeks grow hot. Your fingertips are cold against your cock, but you don't care, you need to get this over with fast. You push the hem of your boxers out of the way and you're circling your thumb on your head, smearing your pre-cum and sending fits of shivers down your spine.

TG: id do all sorts of things to your neck and youd better scream for me

TG: just like how i screamed for you

TG: heh

You bite your lower lip hard enough to make it quiver between your teeth, humming to muffle the noises you're making at the very back of your throat as you tentatively fold your fingers around your cock, stroking quickly and pushing all rational thoughts to the back of your mind. This now, thinking and probably crippling shame later. You tightly close your eyes before glancing back at the screen through your eyelashes, your vision blurred enough to make reading Dave's messages a challenge. 

TG: and then id grab the hem of your shirt and just tear it off

TG: what are you even doing wearing clothing in my presence how dare you

TG: and then id just go to town on your chest

TG: kissing your shoulders and going all the way down to your belly button

TG: shit i shouldve said navel

TG: thats a way more sensual word fuck

And then you find yourself laughing because he's perfect, he's so perfect, oh my god, and your entire body quakes and you let out a raspy, throaty cough as you cum all over your hands. You didn't last very long at all, wow. You're almost thankful that Dave wasn't actually there to see it.

TG: and then youd be groaning and moaning and ill just kiss you like the upright gentleman i am before going straight for the prize

TG: just shooting my hand right down your pants

TG: oh my god that ASS let me grab the hell out of it send me straight to the euphoria of butt town

TG: and thats a wrap

TG: curtains close leonardo dicaprio finally wins an oscar for his flawless depiction of myself

TG: people cryin in the theater the script goes all the way to broadway 

TG: ...

TG: uh

TG: john

TG: its been a while since you typed anything

TG: are you

TG: oh my god

You wipe your palms on your jeans because you were planning on doing laundry today anyway before placing your fingers on your keyboard. That was a gross thing you just did.

EB: sorry, but i need to go now! i need to shower for a few years and then probably talk to my dad about something really quick.

EB: see you soon. you better start cleaning up your apartment!

TG: wait what

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 09:02 --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look it's babby's first smut


	3. Be the nervous guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the last chapter where second-person, run-on sentences are a thing  
> because they make me want to rinse myself in germ-x  
> okay

==> Dave: Absolutely do _not_ flip your shit.

You fail spectacularly at not flipping your shit. That shit has been flipped so violently that it is now in the process of exiting the stratosphere. That shit is on the frying pan of your life, and it is evenly browned on both sides from your obsessive flipping. It is so uniformly cooked that even the most extravagant of restaurants wouldn't hesitate to slap it on their menus, probably warp it into another one of their spherical delights because apparently that's what people are into these days.

When you read John's last messages to you, all blue and flickering and beautiful even though they were on a screen whose sole purpose was to melt your corneas, you went into a hypnotic stupor and immediately edged yourself away from your desk, flipping yourself over on your stomach and dragging yourself along the carpet military-style. You began sizing up your room—all the mismatched entanglements of wires writhing across your carpet (how have you gone all this time without a tragic yet hilarious electricity incident), your constantly disheveled sheets that cover more of the floor than your actual mattress, your precariously placed turntables and other pieces of expensive technology placed on a number of makeshift pieces of cinder-block furniture—and you feel a sharp ache in your temples. Oh wait, that was already there because of hangover reasons you'd rather not think about.

Clean up. John told you to clean up. Right after you basically vomited out your feelings in a clumsy and embarrassingly undesirable manner. In more than one way. Okay. Clean up. That's totally something you are capable of doing. Your life is making so much sense lately.

With a lot of guttural groaning and weird muscle-shudders you can only assume are the quintessences of your body saying, "No, fuck you, let me rest," you fight your way to your feet. You love the floor, it has treated you well, but you will always prefer upright stances. You hope you can still be friends with the floor after this regrettable and abrupt break-up, maybe see the kids on weekends, try to work out quaint dinner plans with it and your old love for standing and bond over your intertwined histories together.

Wait, what the fuck were you actually doing. Cleaning, right. Because John. Because that's what he wants you to do after a sort of mortifying and weirdly frisky PesterChum adventure? Okay. Whew. You're lucky you feel way too sick at the moment to even entertain the idea of having long-lasting fits of arousal because otherwise you would feel almost abandoned and a little violated, what the fuck. You bring your hand up to your collar and tug at it a bit, confused by how you can somehow manage to feel feverish while still having chills rack through your body, before you squint your eyes and examine your room a second time.

Alright, that corner is shittily mounted shitty katana corner. That corner is shitty string holding up some shitty polaroids that are shittily hung above a slightly less shitty camera. That corner is—wait, are those the remains of Beer Can Mountain? That. Is a fucking. _Monument._ You carefully edge your way over to it before toeing the cans until they are collected once again into a sort of crumpled stack, but then you remember  wait shit i hate beer can mountain it is the reason i dont understand my life at all anymore, and you manage to very maturely pick up each PBR can before making the trek out to your kitchen and throwing them into the abyss that is your sink. Bro will probably have a goddamned hissy-fit over that vile hipster-douche fuel touching the precious shitty metal of his shitty sink katanas, but he—oh wait. You forgot.

Suddenly, you feel a lot less numb and confused and a lot more hollow and aching. You absently bring a hand up to your chest because it feels like there's a fucking black hole in there sucking everything up and you feel like any sort of contact would convince it that it's full again. Wait, no, this is stupid, Bro left the apartment for days at a time unannounced almost routinely. Whatever man, gives you more space to do what you want, like drink a shit-ton of shitty beer. Who fucking cares if it's almost your birthday and he's shown no sign of coming back? Who fucking ca... 

You sigh. What are you doing, having a petty and irrational domesticity crisis in the middle of your kitchen while severely hungover and also you may have drunkenly poured your heart out to your long-time internet friend and maybe heart-wrenching crush who just told you to clean up your apartment whaaat and also you may have unintentionally helped him get off or was that a prank or???

God fucking dammit. Nothing makes sense anymore. You pick one of the PBR cans up from the sink before holding it upside-down and shaking it until flecks of its remaining vile liquids flit against the sheeny metal of the katana blades. You do this until you're quite sure Bro will have to spend all of two seconds cleaning them again, if he even cares enough to do so, knowing that this is a vain and quite frankly lame attempt at passive aggressive oneupmanship, but it's all you can manage right now.

Then you trudge back to your room and take a fucking nap.

* * *

SON.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS, IT MEANS YOU HAVE BEEN   
THINKING OF TRAVELING. YOU HAVE TRULY GROWN  
TO BE AN ADVENTUROUS ADULT.

I AM SO, SO PROUD OF YOU.

NO I DID NOT LOOK AT YOUR INTERNET HISTORY.

* * *

==> John: Say "Daaaaaaaad!" in a very sitcom-esque manner.

"Daaaaaaaad!"

Pouting slightly, you bring your towel to the side of your head, ruffling your freshly-showered hair until it's in a state of rough dampness. You could try to smooth it down, but it'll just resume being gravity-defying once it dries, and hey, it makes you look a couple inches taller, anyway.

You're standing in the upstairs hallway outside your bathroom in only a pair of navy blue boxers that hang low on your over-protrusive hip bones, the only thing stopping you from making a bee-line for your bedroom being the clinks and clatters in the kitchen signifying that your dad is busy at work where he can't see you. You tug his note away from where it's taped on the wall, reading it over again before trying to remember exactly what you decided to not erase from your internet history. Probably just Google searches, mostly for joke sites and baking recipes. You usually plant those because you know they make your dad fall to his knees and burst into proud dad-tears. The new additions were a result of your Houston research, and it probably caught your dad by surprise. As much as he respects your privacy, the father of a teenage boy can only resist curiosity so much. At least he seems to approve! He even called you an adult! That should make your job easier.

It doesn't allow you to shake off how skeevy you feel after that conversation with Dave. Maybe it would've been better if you hadn't peaked within a minute of whipping out your dick, but hey, it happens, and you were in kind of a hurry! Moving your towel so it drapes over the entirety of your head, you begin to pad back to your room, drying your hair lazily as you go. You wonder if you gave away too much with your suggestion to start cleaning; you didn't want to tell Dave about your plans until you had a plane ticket and an eager bro-fist with his name on it to show for it.

Only when you are tugging on a clean pair of jeans does it hit you that, oh no, what if dave doesn't actually want to see me?? It's just like you to hop into things that probably break at least ten rules of the Bro Code, and you frantically formulate a plan in your head that includes _smoothly_ slipping in the idea of irl meet-ups to Dave to see how he'll react after talking to your dad about it, hopefully getting a solid answer before any actions are taken that involve you slamming your belongings into a suitcase and flying out the door. Yeah. That's smooth as hell. A+ for John Junior Detective Egbert.

You pull a white t-shirt on, not even bothering to inspect the graphic on the front side of it before taking broad strides out your door and down the stairs. It probably has something to do with bands or movies, or maybe you could be diving into a serious father-son conversation with a lolcat shirt on, but you decide there are more pressing matters at hand.

Your bare feet slap against the tiled flooring of your kitchen with shallow clouting noises, and your dad cranes his neck to look at you from the oven, his knuckles dusted with cocoa powder and a pipe hanging out the corner of his mouth. The other corner quirks up at the sight of you, his eyebrows raising jubilantly. "Son! You look absolutely refreshed! I'm so proud of your hygienic habits!"

Even though the scent of baked confections wafts around the kitchen in a way that makes your stomach turn—three cakes a day is TOO MANY CAKES, dad!—you can't help but smile back. He tries so hard to keep your opinion of yourself high in the clouds, and it's more admirable than exasperating. "Thanks. I am, too? Hehehe." You drag out a chair from the dining table and sit so you're facing him, and you can't help but watch his dusky gray eyes examine you delightedly.

"Is that your Slimer shirt? You haven't worn that in a while," your dad points out, and you can almost see the speech about the importance of recycling clothes shaping in his head, but he just settles with, "Glad you didn't lose it! Proud, even!" It's a wonder how he's able to talk so clearly with a pipe in his mouth; it is doubtlessly a skill that took years of training.

Your hands go to the hem of your shirt, tugging it outward a bit so you can inspect the graphic more clearly. Oh, huh. That's what you're wearing. It's greenness has faded over the years, cracked in certain places where the cotton runs thin. You flash another toothy grin your father's way as he rinses his cake-battered hands in the sink. "Yeah, me too. Remember when I used to wear it like, everyday?" A hollow chuckle wavers in your chest. Ah, the awkward middle school days. Now you're in your prime: the awkward mid-high school days.

"Yes!" Your dad's twinkling eyes dull just the tiniest bit as he reminisces. "You're growing so fast."

You both share a moment of tender silence, and you can't help but wonder if you're about to shatter his delicate dad-heart. Hesitating, you hold the side of your fist to your mouth before a cough resounds in your throat, getting your dad's attention again. "Yeah. You know, that's actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about?" The last part of your sentence irresolutely raises in tone, as if your fingers are skimming over octaves on your baby grand piano, and your dad immediately takes the hint to trek over to the dining table to sit bow-leggedly next to you. Your eyes take a moment to examine the short salt-and-pepper colored stubble dotting his jawline and the wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes, and you realize, wow, you haven't been the only one growing.

Clearing your throat again, you continue. "I think—I—ugh. I...I was wondering...How grown I need to be...to travel across the country?" Your dad remains silent, a stoic look etching itself into his rugged features, and you open your mouth again to test the waters. "...Alone?"

When your dad lets the silence drag on, you can't help but toss your gaze sideways, staring at the corner of the granite counter-top as you mumble, "To visit someone."

"Someone?" your dad asks, and you almost flinch at how startling his voice is in the hush.

"Yeah." You continue to scrutinize that counter-top, studying how each fleck of color is curved and faded. "Someone."

You suddenly feel a callused hand in your hair, tousling the wettish strands until they are doubtlessly downright rumpled, and you look back at your dad, endlessly relieved to see him smiling. "I was wondering when you'd ask me!" he exclaims (proudly). "I've had ticket money set back for a few months now. I wonder if my note encouraged you at all?" He then proceeds to emphasize how he absolutely _did not_ look at your internet history, and oh yeah, stop looking at FoodNetwork.com for baking recipes, those are evil, just stick with the ol' Betty Crocker cake mixes, and _no I did not look at your internet history_.

Although your dad did say he would rather your friend travel to Washington where he could keep an eye on you both, he stressed that he trusted you enough to be responsible on your own (and that is in no way influenced by any observance of your internet history), and he sent you upstairs to pick the flight you wanted. You both shared an awkward father-son hug, complete with a total of two forced back pats, and even though you felt infinitely giddy, you couldn't help but worry about how Dave would feel about all this. You didn't mean to make plans this quickly! Oh well. He wouldn't just straight up turn you down, would he?

the bro code is so complicated ugggghhhhh.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 12:53 --

TG: alright bro

TG: i want you to know

TG: that you completely ruined my life

TG: oh my god just kidding i love you

TG: but seriously

TG: you cant just

TG: ugh i was going to take a peaceful nap but i cant stop thinking about you

TG: and what you said

TG: what the hell john what does it even mean throw me a bone here 

TG: ok so yeah i prematurely confessed to you thats pretty awkward 

TG: but water under the bridge right

TG: right

TG: oh my god what have you done to me

TG: so what if my heart aches for you and your stupid taste in movies and your goofy teeth

TG: so what 

TG: thats what all bros go through i guarantee it

TG: and "shower for a few years" what even stop talking in egyptian hieroglyphics please

TG: john please talk to me

Your name is John Egbert, and you are the biggest dick in existence.

Dave sent these about an hour ago, and it's probably taken you at least all of time itself to process them in your mind. You guess you did leave him hanging in the worst way possible and oh wow now you have some really big news to spring on him that may or may not include you unintentionally making plans to go to his place of residence without his permission and also hmmm he didn't actually confess to you that was just a bunch of bullshit spewing from your mouth and _oh my god you're the worst_.

EB: dave.

EB: i'm.

EB: so. 

EB: fucking.

EB: sorry.

TG: for what 

TG: waking me up once i finally managed to doze off or making me wag my tail and jump through hoops without giving me any treats in return 

TG: egbert i will not know i did anything right without a single beggin strip

TG: how will you take me to any respectable dog show now when i dont even know the truth behind my entire existence

EB: i think you started to lose your handle on that metaphor by the end.

TG: not the only thing im losing my handle on

A couple moments pass, and you realize you have been gnawing on your bottom lip when the rusty taste of blood slicks itself across the tip of your tongue. How are you even going to _start_ telling him everything you need to tell him, mother of god.

TG: sorry im tired

TG: and a little bitchy

TG: hence the dog metaphor

EB: no, don't apologize! 

EB: you are not a bitch, you are the most purebred and luxurious of bearded collies and i will win all of the dog shows with you!

EB: and i promise i won't ever skimp out on the treats again! uugugughhhh. i'm so sorry, dave.

TG: wow ok that may or may not be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me

TG: even though you picked a girlyass dog

TG: with a wildass coat john are you sure you are ready to brush my fur everyday because that is what it will take

EB: yes! i promise i will dedicate my life to brushing you! just listen please because i have a lot of things to say and i'm sorry.

EB: please don't get too mad.

TG: john i know times may have seemed rough when you were puppy training me and i bit you a few times but i could never be mad at you 

TG: seriously its physically impossible

EB: dave, shoosh! if you keep talking i'll lose my nerve and won't tell you!

EB: ...

EB: okay.

EB: god.

EB: first of all, you didn't actually drunkenly confess to me? i'm sorry! i thought it would be funny to say! and i guess you didn't actually read the pesterlogs because you would see that we just talked about dick clark and our names both having three syllables?

EB: it was pretty funny. don't do it again though because you started feeling sick by the end and i started getting a bad case of the sads. and the anxieties!

EB: that's a lethal combination, dude. 

EB: and um.

EB: when you said that you actually

EB: felt that way

EB: i guess

EB: i was really happy about it?

EB: i'm not saying that lying to you was a good thing! it was really lame and it wasn't even really a prank and i'm sorry!

EB: but anyway it just made me really sad that we're so far apart. so i started talking about plane tickets to my dad and apparently he's already been planning on buying me one? so i said yes without asking you first and i'm sorry!

EB: i hope that all counts as at least one beggin' strip because it suddenly got really hot in my room and i don't think i can handle any more guilty pleas.

EB: but i'm still really sorry.

EB: ...

EB: dave?

TG: sorry im just laughing up a storm here

TG: oh my god all of that

TG: hahahahaha what the fuck

EB: dave! it's not funny! that was supposed to be a tender bro moment! 

TG: i know i know and im really touched i swear

TG: just

TG: hahahahah jesus christ

TG: im a little peeved about you lying to me about my drunken slurs but seriously john

TG: i wouldnt have it any other way

TG: youre reckless and youre thoughtless and youre oblivious and i love you

TG: and youre turning me into such a sap what the hell

TG: ive whipped out the l word more times today than i ever have in my life

TG: disney forest critters are going to start tittering around my room at any moment

EB: dave! this isn't how i planned you would react at all!

TG: shut up and go bug your dad about that plane ticket

TG: my luscious fur coat is in need of some serious brushing

TG: and i mean stat because you promised and you are not getting out of this one now

EB: ugggghhh, you're impossible.

TG: you love it

EB: you really have been tossing around the l word a lot.

TG: regardless

TG: you love it

EB: ...

EB: fuck. i know.

* * *

Your name is John Egbert, and you really don't think this plane is going fast enough. 

You remember picking out a flight for next week, and your dad ended up choosing one that left in two days, saying that it followed the philosophy that if you left sooner, it would mean you would come back sooner as well. You told him that didn't make any sense, and as he entered his credit card information in the Delta Airlines website, he bopped you on the head and told you that you were getting sassy...and he was proud of you. 

You packed a shirt for each day you were planning to stay there (a whole week!) and then your dad packed two extra. You packed a pair of boxers for each day, and your dad packed five extra (daaaaaaaad!). You brought two pairs of jeans, a belt, and a ziplock mighty freezer-lock bag with all your bathroom essentials, and he seemed to approve of that, at least. 

He dropped you off at the terminal, his mouth set thinly, looking empty without his old-fashioned carved, wooden pipe. He also left his fedora at home, probably because it was like seven in the morning and that is simply too early for something as wild as a fedora, but it felt slightly somber as he looked you bare-faced in the eyes and pulled you in for a hug in front of your gate. "See you in a week, son. Proud of you." 

You froze at first, but then you let go of the handle of your suitcase and wrapped your arms fully around his waist, all judging, angsty teenage clichés be damned. When he pulled away, he gave your shoulder a hard, manly clap before turning around and making his way out of the airport. And you waved at his back, even though you knew he couldn't see it. 

It was a couple hours before your plane started boarding because your dad insisted to drop you off early, but you entertained yourself by pestering a very eager (though he wouldn't openly admit it) Dave on your phone. 

TG: did he cry when he let you out of his big husky arms

EB: no, actually! he seemed happy for me.

TG: well obviously 

TG: youre about to meet a strider in the flesh 

TG: thats a big deal 

EB: how's your fur holding up? 

TG: as knotty as ever 

TG: seriously im feeling a little neglected 

TG: thinking some pound thoughts 

TG: you better hurry your ass over here 

EB: will do!

And now you're in the sky, elbow resting on your tray and eyes squinting out the window at the expanses of billowing clouds whirling around you. And no, you're not about to make a totally lame and forced Wizard of Oz reference. You're not going to do it. Nope. 

...We're not in Washington anymore. 

God dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! It's hard to think I deserve anything at all for this monstrosity. aaaaaaa. Also, I really hope you all know what Beggin' Strips are.


	4. Be the embarrassingly smitten guys.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAM third-person finale

The clinks and clatters of the luggage carousel were drowned in the shallow noises of the airport, its metal workings grinding together and ebbing into the sound of suitcase wheels, rubber shoe soles, and murky chatter. Jaded passengers milled around John, brushing passed his lean shoulders as he walked stiffly and crookedly, his limbs achy after sitting motionlessly in a plane seat for two hours. He passed great, glossy banners strung on the walls that read "Welcome to Houston!", the font a narrow white script surrounded by mixtures of pictures glowing with the bright, smiling faces of children laughing on play-sets and—is that another deep-fried cheese ball? 

The atmosphere of the airport seemed gray and weary, made up of people with coffee in their veins and sleep in their eyes, but John couldn't help but maintain a toothy grin as he dawdled through it, the rhythm of his feet matching the two-four meter of one of his most upbeat music pieces. He fingered out the melody in his pockets, his digits hitting piano keys of cotton. It smelled warmly of airport, the scent like a sort of sterile rubber slinking through the heavily air-conditioned chill, and John took it into his lungs happily.

After seeing crowds upon crowds hurrying around the luggage retrieval terminal, John was infinitely glad he had only brought a single carry-on. He was busy wheeling it behind him in an effort to hunt down the exit when his phone began vibrating against his thigh. He pulled it out of his pocket, four new messages blinking insistently on his screen.

TG: where are you you dork

TG: i have two things of apple juice that i originally brought for myself but you can have one i guess

TG: you know to help with the ol late november texan swelter

TG: no they are not piss dont even start

John halted next to a row of vending machines, their soft humming lulling out the hustle and bustle of his background. He brought one hand up to his face, his fingers reaching under his glasses to rub one of his eyes as he attempted to block his doubtlessly ridiculous, beaming grin from the public.

EB: you're here already?

EB: careful, you don't want to seem too eager!

TG: it says your flight landed like ten minutes ago i am done waiting

TG: now seriously where are you

TG: the tender bro hug ive been valiantly harboring is quickly growing stale

John was busy typing out his response—i'm by baggage claim. i think i'm near an exit??—but before he could send it, his phone vibrated with another message.

TG: nevermind found you

With a fit of breezy speed that could only be explained by the way John's heart seemed to somersault in his chest, he spun around on his heel, his eyes swerving in search for who he imagined to be a lanky teenager with pale blonde hair and a concrete poker face (that's what he gained from the pictures they had exchanged, anyway), only to be met with the same throng of uninteresting travelers swarming around with luggage carts and the occasional whining toddler. John was about to join in the whining until he felt a tentative tap on his shoulder, the kind of touch that was so soft it lingered.

"I'm over here, dork."

Turning around again, John couldn't help but feel a sort of shuddering warmth trickle through his ribcage as the image of his best bro slewed into his vision. Not on a computer screen, but in the actual space in front of him, encompassed in the same air and sounds that encompassed himself instead of in artificial pixels and text, and it completely disarmed him. _Dave_ , the one he grew up with in a computerized environment, the one he talked to for hours through walls of blue and red font, the one he felt so far away from just days before was _right there_ , hair pale and skin even paler, a splash of freckles the only thing adding texture to the white pallor of his face and neck.

John was acutely aware of the fact that he was staring, but Dave was staring right back, his ashy blond eyebrows rising above the darkness of his shades and into the almost white tousles of hair sweeping across his forehead in feeble surprise. He parted his lips just the slightest amount, the front of his throat churning as if there were words stuck in it, and he swallowed them down, preferring instead to wordlessly offer John the single plastic bottle of apple juice he had been keeping at his side.

And that was it. John couldn't help it; he lunged himself forward and pulled Dave into a tight hug, burying his face into the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent of him—sunshine, ashes, weak traces of cinnamon—and Dave stumbled backward, dropping the apple juice and pausing for a few seconds before carefully snaking his arms around John's waist. They stood there, completely still, chests rising and falling in slow and relaxed synchronization.

As Dave felt John smile against the bare skin of his neck, he couldn't help but shiver, and he gripped the loose material of John's cotton t-shirt tightly for a split moment before slowly edging backward, separating himself from the hug and looking at John with a tight, almost pained expression, as if he was trying very hard to control himself. "'Sup."

"Dave!" John chimed, voice shaken with silent laughter. "It's you! In the flesh!" He took a moment to let his arms drop from Dave's shoulders, but not before he could notice the firmness of lean muscles cording underneath his sleeves.

"Nah, man. I was just going to bail on you and expect you to find your way to my apartment alone," Dave sighed, voice breathy and velvety with just a touch of rasp that reminded John of crashing ocean waves. And yes, he was right about the slight Southern twang; Dave's vowels were lengthened and deepened in a way that would tug at all heartstrings within earshot. The glass of his shades cloaked his eyes in a curtain of black, but John could still feel them washing over him, and it made the muscles in his stomach tighten.

"Dammit, Egbert. What gives you the right to own eyes I can drown in?" Dave quietly huffed, a slight pout on his lips as if this particular fact worried him. He let out a long breath. "...And you're a lot taller than I thought you'd be. What the hell."

It was true; John had to tilt his head downward just a bit to look Dave square in the face, having at least two inches of height over him.

Abruptly, a playful smirk tugged at the corners of Dave's mouth before he tucked his hands away in his pockets and made a clear effort to make it seem like he was shamelessly checking out the lower half of his best bro. "Ninety-nine percent legs, though. I would kill to see those in fishnets."

When John responded with gaspy, squeaky sounds of protest, Dave clapped his hand on the small of John's back, dangerously close to his ass. "Fuckin' kidding, dude. Mostly."

They made their way out of the airport with a carefree sort of slowness, John sipping at the apple juice Dave had brought him and making jokes about his chivalry, and also a piss joke. He couldn't go without making at least one piss joke.

When they reached the parking garage, John immediately felt the Texan heat hit him, smothering him in tendrils of wet, sultry warmth and assaulting his nostrils with the scent of burnt tar. Dave must have noticed because once they climbed into his old, rusted '97 Chevy truck, he cranked the a/c up to full blast, making the inner workings of the car groan as he tugged the gear shift into drive and began reversing out of his parking spot.

"Sorry, Dorothy, we're not in Washington anymore," he said, and John watched the way his shoulders moved as he checked his surroundings out the car's back windows.

John chuckled. "C'mon, man. That joke isn't even ironically funny." He brought a hand up and carded his long fingers through his hair, raking it out of his face as he took out his phone and sent a short text message to his dad—the plane didn't crash!—and noticing halfway through that Dave was looking at him sideways, a ghost-image of his eyes apparent through his shades. John returned the look with his signature grin, all buck-toothed and radiant, and there was a soft yet definite pinkening across the otherwise pallid brim of Dave's cheeks.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Strider," John trilled simply, and the pink gradually deepened.

They pulled to a stop at the parking garage exit so Dave could slip two crumpled dollar bills into the parking meter, and John immediately began squirming in his pockets for loose change to pay him back with, which evolved into a long conversation about Dave being the "heir to a massive puppet porn kingdom," and that a couple bucks wouldn't send him plummeting into poverty. They pulled onto the freeway, the occasional loose patch of gravel scuffing the worn tires of the Chevy and sending tiny pebbles darting across its tarnished sides.

John looked out the window, entranced by how tall the sky-scrapers looked in person, how they reflected glances of shining sunlight off their glass expanses and sent the heat raining down on the world below them in sheets. The grass wasn't completely dried and browned, but it carried a chestnut tint that was never seen in Washington, and from it stemmed webs of thin, leafless branches and the streaks of droopy dandelions.

"We're having a cowboy duel before I leave," John stated flatly, his tone completely serious. "There are actual _tumbleweeds_ here."

"Don't get all _The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly_ on me. I swear I will turn this car around and drive you back to Washington," Dave threatened, but it was weakened by the obvious smile in his voice.

* * *

After pulling up next to a sidewalk about two blocks away from his apartment complex, Dave tugged the keys out of the ignition of his Chevy and felt the rough rumble of his truck slowly soften from a guttural growl to a tired purr. He tossed open the door, tucking the keys into his back pocket as he jumped out of it.

"I should've known you would start driving before me," John wondered aloud, hopping out of the passenger's seat and landing on the asphalt with a dull thud. He reached into the car and jerked his suitcase out of it, pulling out its handle and setting it on its wheels. "Guess the Strider swag only grows with age, huh? Almost seventeen-years-old, dude!"

Something inside of Dave seemed to snap when John brought up his birthday without even needing the slightest shred of reminding. He wasn't used to people remembering; even he forgot sometimes. He took in a couple deep breaths and was composed again by the time he rounded the truck. "What would you do," Dave started carefully, "if I told you that I actually don't have my license?"

John went from cozily cheerful to agape with disbelief in a split second. "You don't?"

"Do you know what a permit is to somebody who already knows how to drive?" Dave asked, deftly arching an eyebrow in John's direction. 

"Mandatory?" 

"No, John. Bullshit. Bullshit is what it is." Dave idly began to walk down the sidewalk, motioning for John to follow.

"You think cops are going to accept that if you get pulled over? Give you the special permits-are-bullshit sanction?" John animated his argument with electric movements of his free hand while he absently began to follow Dave down the block, the wheels of his suitcase making low scraping noises on the pavement.

"Don't worry so much, babe," Dave retorted, "I got you here safe, didn't I?" They passed a few walled-in gardens filled with plots of damp wood chips and speckles of roses and gardenias, strokes of grass and weeds bunching up out of the cracks of the sidewalks and writhing in the sunlight.

"You never know! Cops have quotas to fill, and that Chevy looks like a ticket piñata."

"Hey, don't diss Smoggy. He's been loyally serving the Striders for years."

John let out a tired huff, and then a stifled giggle, and then another, louder giggle, and even though he was sparking what would seem like an argument to outside ears, it could have been intimate dinner-date chatter for how much it was making him grin. "Did you really just call it Smoggy? That just proves my point, dude."

Flocks of crows whipped away from telephone lines and struck the air above them, looking like slashes of black against the sky, rosy and pale blue with the setting sun.

"Damn. Fine. You win," Dave muttered over his shoulder, taking a sudden turn and leading John towards the front door of a tall multistory building made of gray bricks and plain, square-framed windows. "But only because I really kind of maybe like you." He was finding that a lot of things were more difficult to say out loud than they were to type into a messenger client, but John seemed to get the point anyhow, and he very deliberately let his knuckles brush passed the back of Dave's hand.

They walked through a fairly air-conditioned lobby that smelled like a mixture of metal and potpourri, its straggly maroon carpet stretching from an empty desk all the way to a blank, cream-colored wall that housed both a door to an angular winding staircase and a pair of elevator doors plastered together with caution tape. They ascended the staircase side-by-side, and while Dave had already grown accustomed to it, John clung at the railing and panted. "You just _had_ to live on the top floor, didn't you."

Dave shrugged, hands in pockets and bangs slightly damped with sweat. "Obviously. Why do you think I have such fine glutes?" 

John thinned his lips into a half-smirk before directing his eyes toward the ceiling. 

"Did you just roll your eyes at the mention of my rock-hard butt," Dave deadpanned, managing to look betrayed. "That's it. I have to take you out to the roof later for reconditioning and cleansing. And butt-gazing."

"A romantic evening of butt-gazing? It's going to be hot, though!" A pout formed on John's lips. "And not the good kind! I have sensitive Washington skin. I am a delicate flower, Dave. I am a delicate flower with delicate petals."

Dave let out a curt breath of laughter, sounding like a stifled _snnnrk_. John couldn't help but perk his ears at the velvet sound of it; it seemed so foreign, even over the phone, and it happened so rarely that it always caught him by surprise. Of course, his smile only grew wider, except now it was paired with a different kind of warmth pooling at his core.

Dave very consciously didn't peel his gaze away from the empty space in front of him, taking out one of his hands from his pockets and sliding it lightly against the railing before taking out the other and wordlessly grabbing John's suitcase away from him, carrying it the rest of the way up. "It cools down at night. Your fucking petals are safe."

* * *

"As you can see, everything is organized in piles. That," Dave pointed at a spot in the living room loaded with crumpled mounds of laundry and a couple hairbrushes, both strung with clumps of white-blond hair, "is the beauty pile. That," his finger moved to a spot with a fairly sizable mini-fridge and opened boxes of Cheez-Its, "is the sustenance pile. That," to a spot with DVDs and stray discs as well as board games with frayed, scratched covers, two acoustic guitars, and a dusty Yamaha keyboard, "is the wild party happy fun times pile. That," to a fairly dark place with more DVDs, the covers purposely covered with the absurdly large rumps of puppets, oh god _so_ many puppets, and stacks upon stacks of issues of Game Bro magazine on top of a weirdly extravagant leather chest, "is the do-not-touch-under-any-means Bro pile."

Dave moved his hands to his hips, looking very pleased with himself. "I cleaned up real nice for you, Egbert. I think I even disabled most of the booby traps." Suddenly, his features went grim, and he whirled his head around to look John square in the face. "But don't ever open the dishwasher, do you hear me. Or the fridge. Or any of the cabinets. Or...Just. Don't go into the kitchen. At all."

John widened his bottomless azure eyes at Dave before directing them to the living room again, seeing at least five different sets of turntables crammed into each corner, usually on heaps of cinder blocks with records squeezed between them, and an impressive sound system surrounding a flat-screen television in front of a large, plain futon folded into its upright couch position. He noticed a number of puppet posters on the walls, some pixelated for ironically comedic effect, and when he turned his head to peer around the corner and into the kitchen, he saw heaps of fireworks and katanas as well as mounted cleavers, ninja-stars, and other different assortments of blades that glinted in the lamplight.

"Dave." John said in a straight tone, turning his head to look his best bro straight in the eyes. "It is. _So._ Crazy. How attracted I am to you right now."

The pasty skin of Dave's face made the blood-flow in his cheeks much more apparent than was fair, and he had to pretend to cough into his hands to hide it. "Jesus, John. Master of subtlety." He experimentally arched one of his eyebrows so it could be seen above his shades. "Are you saying the way to your heart is through a little domestic maid work?"

"The fact that you call this maid work. Just. Oh my God." John gripped the flat expanse of his stomach before hunching over and airily chuckling. "Yes, I am saying that. Gold star for you. You did a great job."

"And where was this priceless piece of information when I was awkwardly confessing to you over the internet like a prepubescent middle-schooler." Dave's voice was edging on the line of accusatory, and the usually relaxed groove of his mouth was taut with the warning signs of a pout.

"Oh my _God._ " John's chuckle erupted into full-out guffawing, and Dave tried very hard to not look sulky as he watched his best bro double over on the floor and harshly grip his quaking sides, interjecting with quiet, confused questions—"What? What's so funny? Why? What?"—that only made John laugh harder.

"S-Sorry...Hah..." John sat up, leaning his back on a wall and patting the carpet next to him, bidding Dave forward.

Dave hesitantly obliged, sitting close so he could feel John's body heat radiate against his willowy frame and frowning. "I'm going to pee in your suitcase, Egbert. Right there. I will do it."

"Sorry! It's just...Wow. You're really cute when you don't want to be." John flashed Dave a smile, and Dave noticed all the little details in his face—his dark, thick fringe of eyelashes that framed the brilliant, rich cobalt of his irises, the moisture that had collected at the corners of his eyes from his laughing fit, the peach fuzz on his earlobes and the devastating fullness of his lips, each ridge and each laugh line sculpted into the milky shoal of his face. His features were soft, holding a sort of satiny smolder against his graceful cheekbones and angular jaw line, and he would be so pretty if he weren't so tall and muscular, the muscles thin and lean but holding enough firmness to be twined with iron.

Dave noticed a fleck of dust floating in front of the utter blueness of John's eyes, just swaying and falling until it settled on the padding of his lower lip, and Dave was moving himself forward before he really knew what he was doing. 

And then he was kissing him. 

Not so much of a kiss; more like delicate, devastatingly fragile butterfly grazes glancing across their lips, Dave's hand trembling as it cupped itself carefully on John's cheek. He felt John steel up, his shoulders rising, before he melted all at once and became pliant in Dave's hold, letting out a sigh of something like defeat as he inched himself closer into the feverish heat. It burnt the edges of him, the warmth spreading in copses until it flickered over both of them like a glowing taper light, and they stayed like that for a while—wordlessly drowning in the fever of it all, breathing in their interlaced scents, kindling and dissolving until they were both shaking in each others arms.

* * *

"So you never did tell me what you were up to that one time on PesterChum," Dave sleepily mumbled, his voice swirling and warping in the cool breeze. They had made their way to the roof in comfortable silence earlier, walking close to each other and intentionally bumping shoulders so as to not lose contact for long periods of time.

John was sitting cross-legged on the cold brickwork, holding Dave's head in his lap and letting his white strands of hair slip between his fingers as he played piano on his scalp, a soft, lilting piece meant to slowly lull into its crescendos and diminuendos, steadily, warmly, tentatively. The glow of the night made Dave's searingly light complexion even lighter, to the point where he was radiant, gleaming like pieces of fractured moonlight shaped painstakingly into his long legs, his muscle-twined arms, the gentle curve of his shoulders, as slender as a tree branch. "Hmm?" John hummed, continuing to play the melody of his song against Dave.

"Don't 'hmm' me," Dave yawned, bringing one of his hands up to his mouth before nuzzling the side of his face deeper into John's thighs, the denim of his jeans cool from the night's chill. "I was weirdly horny and pissed at everything, which is actually how I am usually, but that time I was also hungover. And I said some pretty M-rated things. Remember? And you..."

John stilled, his fingers entering a couple bars of rest as they went motionless in the tousles of Dave's hair.

"Dot, dot, dot," Dave continued, "Fill in the blanks. It's what a real gentleman would do."

The wind slewed across them, brushing against their skin like ribbons of ice and painting them thickly with the scent of cold city air. John chuckled, the sound softly dissonant against the distant car honks and tire screeches of the streets below them. "I started looking up oatmeal recipes and yodeling tips. What the hell do you think I was doing?"

Dave's eyebrows rose timidly above his shades before his lips parted into a small o shape, letting out a long exhale of hot breath. "Just making sure."

And John's melody came to life again with tired, blushing lethargy, his long pianist's fingers moving expertly down the curve of Dave's skull and onto the back of his neck, making him shudder, traveling even lower to his shoulder blades and stopping at the base of his spine, hitting the high notes with twinkling, chirruping tingles.

Dave felt his eyes lazily close; he felt so comfortable here, with the moon's glow washing over him and the night absorbing into his skin. It wasn't long before his breaths grew deep and even, his mind languidly sinking into a blanketed world of sleep.

* * *

John had woken up on the rooftop groggy and achy the next morning, and Dave was sprawled out next to him, having crawled over to his side in the middle of the night so he could nestle his face into John's neck.  

They spent a good ten minutes groaning while stretching out their stiff limbs and cracking their backs before heading back inside the apartment, Dave making mental notes about how John's usual bedheadedness was no where near as wild as his actual bedhead. Or roofhead; that's more fitting.

They spent the day lounging on the futon in the same clothes they wore yesterday, smelling heavily of nighttime as they dug into the sustenance pile and played awful video games, laughing whenever they glitched in a particularly ridiculous way. John noted that Dave was smiling more often now, his poker face sporting visual cracks and letting out beaming expression. It was infectious.

The windows darkened with the first signs of evening, and they decided that showering and brushing their teeth was probably a good option after an entire day of lazing around. They did so separately, and it felt strangely wrong and forlorn listening to the distant hum of the shower from the living room and having to wait for the other to finish.

Dave had taken his shower after John, and he emerged only in a pair of heart-print boxers and shades, hair damp and rumpled. He went into the living room only to find John already asleep on the futon, and he felt as if his bones were burning as he tentatively walked over and plucked John's glasses from his face, taking time to appreciate how he looked without them before setting them on one of the speakers framing the television. He went into his room and tugged his blanket off of his bed before dragging it out to the futon and tossing it over John, crawling in under it once he did so, immediately relieved to feel the warmth and comfort of another body next to his.

John quietly stirred, opening his eyes into slits, the blueness of them peeking through his eyelashes and ripping into Dave's heart. Wordlessly, John folded himself next to Dave until they fit together perfectly, his arms slinking across Dave's bare torso, fingertips tracing swirling patterns up his sides until they eventually landed on the soft pallor of his cheeks, inching carefully towards the rim of his shades. He traced lightly over the bridge of them, wanting so badly to remove one of the only remaining barriers between them.

"Don't tell me you usually sleep with these," John rasped, his voice quiet but alarmingly loud in what was once the still silence of the room. "That's something serial killers do."

Dave swallowed hard, his Adam's apple visibly sliding down his throat before he waveringly shook his head, the movement just a small twitch in his neck. "I don't. Usually."

They laid on their sides facing each other, the very tips of their noses touching. 

"Can I take them off?" John whispered, his voice carrying a gentle din of sleepiness as it slid through his throat, thick and weary.

There was a long moment of strained silence where they just looked at each other, the darkness of the room writhing against them and the hazy smell of Dave's cinnamon shampoo lingering. Finally, Dave pursed his lips into a thin, bloodless line before nodding. Just once—a brisk, barely visible movement of his head, and instantly, everything seemed to be happening too fast. He felt John's fingers on his shades, sliding them off and leaving the brim of his face vulnerable and cold. He didn't know it, but he was sternly closing his eyes, his copper eyebrows drawn tightly together with distress.

"Look at me," John sighed, and the ice of his minty breath seeming to ebb in the air, washing over Dave's face like a cool breeze. He lifted his hands and began smoothing out the harsh crinkles in Dave's expression—the ones between his eyebrows, the ones covering the bridge of his nose—until all the muscles in his face were relaxed. "Look at me," he repeated drowsily.

"Hell no," Dave whispered, voice rough like static.

The bow of his shoulders began to tremble, and John pulled him closer. "Please?"

"I can't." Dave could almost feel the burn of his irises singing against his eyelids, and it hurt. It scalded him, and he just wanted to be splashed with the iciness of the blue of John's eyes, to be relieved from the charred blisters he suddenly felt forming all across his bare skin as John tightened his hold on him. 

He listened to the hushed sound of John shifting slightly forward on the futon, inching his face closer until their lips were just barely touching, a quick glimpse of contact that left a churning gasp writhing in Dave's chest. 

"Please." John's voice was quiet, almost silent, and Dave could feel his mouth moving against his, just subtle brushes of the crests of their lips. 

Dave felt all of his defenses wash away; he reluctantly loosened his eyelids until he was staring John in the eyes, _actually_ in the eyes, and everything seemed so painfully clear without tinted eyeglass obscuring his view that it almost hurt.

And they were red. John squinted in the darkness, but there was hardly any need to; they shone with a type of phosphorescence in front of him, red and flaring and—beautiful, beautiful in the same way a roaring forest fire was, with white eyelashes spiderwebbing in front of them like lacy strings of frost.

Dave felt absolutely terrified and endlessly vulnerable, but it all seemed to sluggishly melt away once John lazily let his own eyes droop closed, his hands moving to stroke themselves leisurely up and down Dave's spine with movements that were drunk with sleep, movements that were meant to tell him everything he couldn't say aloud, and within moments, he was deeply ensnared in slumber. He felt warm in Dave's arms, a glowing sort of warmth that blanketed him, and it wasn't long until they were both motionless and dormant with sleep.

* * *

John dreamt of red that night—scraped knees and bitten lips, dark ruby wines intertwining with cinnamon-colored coral reefs, cherry shades painting a Texan sky as a crimson sun rose up in it—and when he languidly began to wake, he opened his eyes into relaxed slits and saw another shade of red. A softer one, touching lightly over the flushed skin of pale cheeks, unkempt tangles of almost white hair dovetailing into it.

John blinked in an effort to clear his vision, but everything remained slightly blurred around the edges without his glasses. His long eyelashes brushed against Dave’s freckled forehead, and Dave started to stir, loosening his near-death grip around John’s torso as he was roused awake. 

"Always knew you were a cuddler." John smirked at the current situation they were in, one of his own lanky arms hanging off the dip of Dave’s hip and the other underneath their heads, acting as a pillow, while Dave simply clung onto John with everything he had, entangling their legs until not even a millimeter of space was left between them. 

"Shut up, dude." 

“You’re a sloth, and I am your branch.” 

“Shut _up._ ” 

John chuckled, giving Dave a quick peck on the corner of his mouth before sitting up and rolling out his stiff shoulders. Dave lolled next to him like a rag doll, letting out a displeased grumble when he was forced to let John out of the ring of his arms. 

“If we’re going to sleep weird every night, you’re going to have to start dishing out some massages,” John half-whined, and his shoulder gave a slight pop as he stretched. 

Dave nestled his face in the covers until only his hair and ears were visible, the tips of them tinted with a rosy pink flush. “Mmhrmhm.” 

“What?” John stretched his neck before glancing back down at Dave sprawled out next to him, noticing how he was absently brushing his fingers over the empty space where John’s head used to lay. 

“Mmhrmhm,” Dave repeated, voice thick and sleepy. His voice was dipping in and out of an inaudible, croaky whisper as he incoherently rambled on. “It’s an ancient phrase...—rrr ancestorsss...first found carved into Baaa- _e_ -bylonian pillar stones...all arrr...cheology ‘nd shiiii...mo...—lieved to mean...fuckin’ history...” He stretched out a pale hand and grabbed John by the collar, lazily pulling him back down to the futon with a huff and clasping him tight. 

“I don’t think you even tried with that metaphor, man,” John murmured into Dave’s hair, defeatedly allowing himself to relax into the futon again. He was warm, engulfed in a pulsing sort of feverish heat that radiated off of Dave’s bare chest in soft, tender sheets. 

“You’re like a space-heater, damn,” John whispered, mostly to himself, his voice a soft undertone. He liked the way it felt—hot enough to melt, but never to scorch. 

Dave sluggishly hummed in response. 

They laid that way for a while, letting the time pass slowly as the comfortable hush washed over them. 

* * *

Hours must have passed before John noticed a muffled pitter-patter on the roof, like a quiet drumming above them. He lazily opened his eyes and directed his gaze to the window, just barely able to make out the water sliding down its glass expanse. 

"It's raining."

Dave hesitated, curling in on himself slightly before shifting against the futon, ruffling up the blanket as he craned his neck to sternly squint at the window. 

And John should have been looking at the window, too, but he found himself busy with the image of Dave in the corner of his eye—all willowy and pale, made up of lean muscles and soft crests and lines roughened with ghost-calluses and dusted with freckles. John saw what he couldn’t last night—how the skin between Dave’s eyebrows sunk gracefully into the straight bridge of his nose, how unbearably long his blonde eyelashes were and how they tangled together at the corners. 

Dave blinked slowly before giving John a long, drawn-out sideways stare, as if he forgot he didn’t have his shades to hide behind, and the red of his irises peeked through the webbings of his eyelashes. His lips were parted just barely, and John noticed the faint crease that furrowed the middle of his lower one as he spoke. 

“Texas has been nursing an off-the-shit drought for so long that it was made its precious baby of dehydration,” Dave said, almost succeeding in sounding solemn, “and now its baby is gone because of all this dunkass precipitation, an—” 

Before he could mumble out another sarcastic peep, John took him by his chin and leaned down, mashing a desperate kiss to his mouth. No tongue; just the heavy press of slightly chapped lips together. John crawled forward on his palms, pushing Dave back onto his elbows and making him let out a low gasp, opening up the kiss, and suddenly everything tasted like skin and sleep and morning. 

Dave made a small groaning sound at the back of his throat, clutching at the curls of blanket around him as he struggled to say something like, “Johnwhuddafuckisthisreallyhappeningwejustwokeupohmy _god_ ,” but only managing to get out variations of, “nnng—aahhnng—” 

The rain came down in forceful sheets on the window as John began nibbling on Dave’s lower lip, catching it between his teeth and softly tugging as Dave’s breathing began coming out in curt, shallow puffs. 

Dave tightly closed his eyes, fighting against a sudden wave of lightheadedness as he took in the feeling of John nimbly planting a trail of bites and kisses across his mouth and down to the corner of his jaw line. He sucked at the soft spot just beneath Dave’s earlobe as he gently pushed him down to the futon and held him down by the wrists, placing them on either side of his head before taking a moment to softly lick his lower lip with the very tip of his tongue. 

“Shhhhit— _John_ ,” Dave managed to choke out, and he began to tremble as he opened his eyes into slits and watched as John ducked his head down lower, his eyes clouding over, the brim of his cheeks reddening. He pressed his lips against Dave’s right clavicle before softly dragging his teeth over the sensitive spot, eliciting a string of muffled moans from Dave as he began sucking on the now flushed skin of Dave’s collarbones. 

He moved his head upward, dragging his lower lip against the feverish skin of Dave’s neck before pressing his teeth just slightly over a patch of pale freckles, making Dave draw in a sharp, gasping breath, his hips twitching upward to meet John’s. 

Dave felt a dizzying pressure in his chest and was only faintly aware of the tenting of his boxers as he tossed his head back, elongating his neck as John pressed wet, hot kisses up the middle of it, taking care to gently lick Dave’s Adam’s apple when he reached it. 

And suddenly, John paused, his head shirking upward so he could look Dave in the eyes. His breaths were heavy and his lips were red and swollen, looking heart-wrenching paired with his disheveled locks of black hair and rosy cheeks. “Are you okay?” he abruptly rasped, his voice carrying a high chime of alert fervor and a little shock. “With this, I mean?” 

Dave squirmed underneath him, his eyebrows harshly furrowed and his hands clenched into tight, wounded fists. “Fuck, John, what the _fuck_. Don’t stop,” he almost whined, “No, I’m not okay because you pulled this sexy shit on me and then you fucking _stopped_ —” 

A muted hint of a smile flashed across John’s face before he bent down and nudged his tongue into Dave’s mouth, bucking his pelvis downward and kneading Dave’s hipbones with his own. Dave could feel his toes curl, his breath hitch, his heart pound, and he responded by fighting against John’s grip on his wrists until he was free wrap his long arms around John’s neck and greedily pull him closer. 

John deepened their kiss, flicking his tongue against Dave’s teeth and licking the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t help but let out a throaty sigh when he felt Dave card his hands through his hair, brushing down his scalp and digging his fingernails into the back of John’s neck. 

Dave repositioned his hands until they were just underneath the hem of John’s shirt. He let himself feel upward, the cloth bunching up as he brushed his palms against the hard expanse of John’s stomach, his fingers moving in swirling circles against the curves and ridges of his abdominal muscles. With a sound of breathy desperation, John swiftly sat up and heaved the shirt off himself, tossing it to the ground and immediately leaning back down to scatter sloppy kisses all over Dave’s chest. 

Dave’s breath audibly caught, and he dug his fingernails right between John's shoulder blades before roughly dragging them downward, leaving slightly swollen, red seethes of scratches across John’s back. He struggled to choke back growly moans as John lightly twitched his tongue over one of his nipples, trailing upward before sucking at the base of his collarbone, coughing out telltale signs of shaky exhalations and yearning groans between kisses. 

A booming clap of thunder struck from the outside, and both of them jumped from slight surprise, not noticing until now just how heavy the rainfall had become. It was coming down in thick layers, thudding against the glass of the windowpane in an uneven rhythm that matched the thrashing of both of their hearts against their ribcages. 

John looked over his shoulder for a moment to peer outside, and Dave took the opportunity to sit up and press his mouth against the crook of John’s neck, kissing softly and lovingly until the skin underneath his lips was tender. John felt a jolt of surprise at this, letting out a hot, quivering breath as Dave continued to push forward until they were both kneeling on the futon. His hands wandered, dragging out long lines and loops against John’s chest and dipping downward until he could hook his fingers into the waistband of John’s boxers, not drawing them downward quite yet but tugging just enough to get John to squirm against him. 

Dave sucked at the base of John’s neck until the skin there was red and sore, sweeping upward and leaving bite marks and kisses in his wake. He nipped lightly on John’s earlobe, and John tried to clamp his mouth against a guttural moan as he wrapped his arms tightly around Dave’s torso and tugged him closer, savoring the feeling of their bare chests brushing against each other. 

Dave pushed into him, grinding his hips against John’s and swiping his tongue over John’s lips, wanting to drag out more sounds of airy pleasure. He could clearly feel the bulge in John’s pants pressing against him, hot and hard, and he rocked against it, letting his fingers knead the small of John’s back and his mouth gasp in the hot, sultry scent of him. 

With a deep breath, Dave attempted to focus his blurred vision on John’s face, wanting to savor how he looked— lips puffy and bitten, skin glowing with a cherry-colored flush, hair rumpled and falling into his usually clear azure eyes, now murky with lust—before allowing his hands to nimbly slip into John’s boxers. Dave watched John’s eyebrows creased together, felt his shoulders rise and his breath hitch as he bit his lip and lowered his eyelids. 

Dave bent downward, arching his spine until he could press his mouth to the front of John’s boxers, nudging his tongue along the edges of John’s cock and sucking through the fabric. John inhaled sharply through his nose, raking his hands through Dave’s hair and leaving it even more disheveled than it already was. 

With alarming suddenness, Dave tugged John’s boxers down until the head of John’s stiff dick was exposed to the cool air. He leaned in and swirled the tip of his tongue around it, feeling John clasp a handful of his hair tightly as Dave continued to work his way down, mouthing the sides and tonguing any prominent veins with care. 

John was whimpering out disjointed strings of jumbled words and gravelly moans as he watched Dave pull his boxers the rest of the way down. Dave brought a hand up to work at John’s throbbing erection, taking care to drag his lips around John’s hips, licking across the strip of skin below his lower abdomen and breathing hot, feverish puffs of air against him. 

Dave parted his lips into an alluring o, his full lips stretching as he leaned in and took in John’s cock as far as he could, using his hand to stroke whatever was left. He pressed the flat of his tongue firmly against the underside of it before backtracking and pushing forward again, blinking a couple times before directing his eyes directly up at John, looking at him through his fringe of white eyelashes. 

John bit his lip firmly, swallowing hard and closing his eyes before feeling a racking wave of pleasure course through him, making his shoulders rise and his spine arch as he came, finishing with deep, shallow pants of breath. 

He looked down, eyes strained and squinted, only to see the front of Dave's throat churning as he compelled himself to swallow. John watched through half-lidded, lust-hazed eyes before promptly ducking downward and shoving Dave against the futon once again, hungrily kissing down his neck and working with flaring desire. 

John let his fingers draw downward until they slipped into Dave’s boxers, and he almost gasped at how solid Dave’s erection was. He gave it a few good pumps before trailing downward, kissing down Dave’s stomach as he went. He reached Dave’s hips, taking care to bite down on the sensitive skin of his abdomen. 

“Ffff, Joh— _nnnnhhhg_ —” Dave pressed his hands to his face, trying to still his whirling head as he felt the muscles in his stomach clench and flutter. He felt John’s tongue against the very tip of his aching cock and wasn’t able to hold back any longer; he rode out his orgasm with John quickly stroking him to a peak. 

Dave looked down to see splatters of his cum on the side of John’s mouth, spreading all the way to his jawline and up his cheek, and he almost completely lost it when he watched John wipe it off on the back of his hand before looking him directly in the eye and licking it clean. 

When Dave let out a series of incoherent noises that sounded like choked off groans and whines, John could only crawl upward and kiss the tip of his nose with a bright smile before winking down at him. "Hehehe." 

"And you fucking giggle," Dave almost sobbed, eyebrows sternly crinkled together. "How can you possibly manage to be a sex god _and_ an adorable dork. That combination isn't fucking _fair._ " 

John leaned down and pressed his lips against Dave's, tasting faint traces of salt and sweat and heat on the tip of his tongue. His skin was almost pulsing with warmth, prickling with a soft sort of blanketed sultriness that made him sigh. "Dave," he whispered hoarsely between kisses, "We have a real problem. 9-1-1 emergency." 

Dave languidly moved his lips against John's before feeling him move down to his neck, flicking his tongue against an already overbearingly sensitive area before sucking a hickey into it. Dave's eyes fluttered shut, and he had to swallow hard to clear his throat before he responded. "This is your captain speaking," he breathed, barely audible, "here to take any inquiries, complaints, or overall beefs." 

"Dave." John repeated, and the smacking sound his lips made when they popped off the tingling skin of Dave's neck made Dave squirm helplessly underneath him. "I think I love you." 

There was a pause where the only sound was their heavy breathing, airy gasps that seemed to ebb steam into the thick air. 

Dave shifted his shoulders until both his hands framed John's face, and he brought his head up until they were looking straight into each others eyes. There was a drawn-out moment of simple blues meeting reds, intertwining into a blended spectrum of color and warmth and longing. It all seemed to blur together into unintelligible disarray, and Dave felt something inside of him crack cleanly apart, a pressure in his chest that was so powerful that it almost hurt. 

The sound of rain splattering against the apartment ceiling was like a droning static in the background, and a distant blare of thunder rang as Dave tightened his hold around John and held him close and tight, burying his nose into the crook of his neck. He needed John near him, needed his chest against his so that he wouldn't splinter apart. 

"I'm so fucking crazy about you," Dave rasped, his voice uneven. "I'm so crazy about you, and it's so stupid."

* * *

It must have been hours before they both crawled their way out of the futon, achy and flushed and weirdly sticky. It was another few hours before Dave realized ew oh god we just did it in my bro's bed. 

They showered again, but this time they climbed in together. It was probably a lot less efficient because they just ended up standing under the running water and holding each other tightly, planting sloppy kisses over wet skin and occasionally catching the bitter taste of soap. 

The day before Dave's birthday, John had dragged him to get groceries because i can actually _feel_ the scurvy setting in!

He cooked a Betty Crocker-free meal while Dave hovered around him, partly annoyed that they weren't canoodling on the couch, partly scared out of his shit because dude do you even remember what i told you about the kitchen your first day here, and partly intrigued because he had never witnessed somebody cooking in the kitchen without almost dying in five different ways. 

They ate and played video games, and Dave got up for thirds while John assured him that i'll still love you when you gain five hundred pounds, but Dave was absolutely certain that you'd love me even more with a robust booty. 

At midnight, they were cuddled up next to each other in the dark, and John sleepily sung Happy Birthday, his voice carrying musically around the still hush of the apartment. 

In the morning, John dug through his suitcase and revealed a present he brought all the way from Washington—i've been hiding it in my underwear pile, dude!

It was an intricate, chunky pair of noise-canceling headphones, the box boasting about things like circumaural design, neodymium magnets, and Swedish origins. It was the most beautiful thing Dave had ever seen. And also the most expensive—jesus fuck did you sell your body for this because i am 100% not ok with that. 

That night, John and Dave were on the couch and very much asleep, John wearing the headphones and Dave's hands resting over the earpads, the wire of it trailing all the way to a laptop playing soft, ambient beats Dave had pieced together in his free time. A key rattled loudly in the apartment door, and it swung open a moment later with comical boorishness, revealing a man probably near his forties wearing anime shades and a creased polo shirt, collar popped by his fingerless-gloved hands. 

He ambled into the living room, dropping a number of plastic bags near the kitchen as he went before stopping dead at the futon, taking a moment to assess the situation in front of him. His eyes lingered the longest on the headphones placed with utmost care on John's ears. 

Ah, dammit. My lil bro's muse fucking stole my gift idea.

And then he promptly turned around and left, gathering up his bags and mumbling sternly to himself before walking out of the apartment and locking the door behind him. In one of the bags, an almost identical pair of headphones rattled around. 

I sure as fuck goddamn Christ do not need another week of hunting around for a suitably awesome gift while my bro seduces a shota in my fucking bed. He strided quickly out to a rental car he had parked near the apartment complex, hopping into the driver's seat with a huff before tossing his bags next to him and sticking his keys in the ignition. I'm too old for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT  
> 10,000 word chapter  
> wheeeeeew i think i broke a sweat
> 
> I just wanted a short fluff story with a simple plot to start myself off on Ao3, and here it is. I was actually thinking of deleting it a while ago hahaha fun fact 
> 
> Thank you all for taking the time to read~


End file.
